


A Prayer In Spring

by chunni



Category: A Monster Calls (2016), A Monster Calls - Patrick Ness
Genre: 5 + 1, 5 Times, Angst and Feels, Bullying, Harry Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22506910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chunni/pseuds/chunni
Summary: Five times Conor meets Harry accidentally and one time he goes looking for him.
Relationships: Harry/Conor O'Malley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	A Prayer In Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Watched the film and couldn't get it out of my head. Conor needs some happiness! I know no one's going to read this but in the odd case someone does: friendly reminder that I'm no native speaker :) (And yes, I made up Harry's surname.)

**A Prayer In Spring**

~

**1**

~

It took Conor two weeks to realise Harry wouldn’t come back.

When he had first gone back to school everything had been painted in shades of grey, the colour of a cloudy sky just before it rained. Or maybe just after it had rained, nature hidden by drops of water.

It had been difficult to see because everything looked the same. How could you make out shapes and figures when there were no lines to hold onto? Just a blotch of nothingness, threatening to pull you into its gaping mouth?

In his room, alone with his drawings and pencils and papers, he could see colours just well, at least well enough. There he could breathe. There he could live. That was why it had taken him so long to see the difference.

There was no Harry just two chairs in front of him, craning its neck to get a look at him because of a reason Conor had never been able to decipher. (Was it because he didn’t talk that much? Was it because he wasn’t like the other students? Because he was different? Or was it another thing altogether?)

There was no mean comment, no backhanded compliment or piercing insult waiting for him in the classroom, the hallways and the courtyard.

Sully and Anton, once Harry’s shadows, had never missed out on the fun that must have been bullying Conor O’Malley. It didn’t seem to be that much fun anymore as now they were merely strolling about the school grounds, helpless like lone wolfs without their former leader. They didn’t even dare to look Conor in the eye, always averting their gazes when it did happen once in a while.

Without the glue of a leader they didn’t seem to hang out together anymore, looking for other people to talk to, other groups to connect with. It was almost as if they didn’t want to remember the past, as if it was done with, damned to collect dust in the attic.

A part of Conor was glad. The other part had never felt that invisible, even though it wasn’t that different to how things had been before. He had always been alone, always invisible to the other students, always a bit shattered, a bit broken in two. Or at least long enough to make it hard to remember happy school memories. It shouldn’t have felt that different, right?

It took him two more days to gather the courage to ask the teacher why Harry wasn’t in school anymore.

The answer was short and, after thinking about it for a too long time, he decided it should have been fairly obvious.

“His parents took him out of this school. He won’t be coming back, Conor. You won’t see him again.”

She had been reassuring, as if talking to a child that had awoken with tears in its eyes and nightmares in his head. It had made him angry, so angry he had bitten into his lip to keep his tongue from forming words he didn’t want to say. There was still a mark.

He didn’t want to see Harry again. He should have been glad he was gone. That he wouldn’t see him again.

He was.

The teacher had been wrong, though. Conor did see him again, a whole month after the Monster and he had beat him up. It was purely accidental.

His grandma had sent him to the supermarket to buy apples after realising halfway through the apple pie recipe that they didn’t have the required amount left. It wasn’t the first time her mind had wandered off like that, wandered off to certain memories, surely, wandered off to laughter and a voice not to be heard again. Conor understood. He didn’t ask questions and, more often than not, did as she told. It was getting better, though. They were getting better at living together, sometimes even joking and playing board games together.

 _He_ was getting better.

The supermarket was fairly empty when Conor arrived, an older couple here, a teenager girl giggling into her phone there. He took his time taking five apples out of the basket, their red skin glimmering as if polished.

He made his way to the cashier, noticing a woman with platinum blond bob putting a cucumber and an impressive number of vitamin pills on the conveyor belt.

It was only a few approaching steps later that he also noticed the boy standing beside her. His shoulders were slumped and his head tilted downwards as if he were trying to decode a secret message hidden in the dirt of the floor. His arms were crossed as well, making him look smaller than he was.

And there was the yellow shadow of a bruise blossoming just beneath his right eye.

 _Harry_.

Getting visibly tense, Harry looked up, meeting his eyes as quickly as if he had known where to look at. It was then that Conor realised he must have said his name out loud. Much too loud, one could say. Loud enough for Harry to hear him.

Heart stuttering in his chest, he considered turning around but Harry seemed just as confused to find him here as Conor himself was. His right hand seemed to tremble but maybe that was just a trick of the eye.

Neither of them left their spot. A part of Conor wondered how long they could go on without blinking. Harry’s mouth tightened, hazelnut eyes narrowing like those of a hawk ready to strike.

He didn’t say anything but his lips opened slightly, then forming a single word. _O’Malley_.

“What are you waiting for, Harry?! If you’re not coming to the car now, you can walk,” the blond woman hissed. She rolled her eyes, a perfectly manicured finger pressed to her temple. “My migraine’s getting worse, son. Now...”

Harry’s eyes widened, face flushing red as he hurriedly averted his gaze. “Sorry, Mum,” he muttered, turning around to follow her like a beaten puppy.

It was oddly satisfying to see him like this. Conor couldn’t help but smile until the echo of his mother’s voice rang through his mind and made the corners of his mouth sink. He hadn’t known that mother’s voices could sound like that. It didn’t seem right. While he gave the cashier the money he couldn’t shake off the heaviness inside his chest, the lump in his throat.

It was almost as if he was feeling sorry for Harry.

**~**

**2**

~

The second time Conor met Harry after he had switched schools was in the summer holidays and it was purely accidental.

It was hot that day. The summer’s heat made the air tremble and brought even the firmest haters of winter to a point where they would have given their left hand for even a single snowflake to cool their bodies. Who wasn’t lying next to an open refrigerator was at the lake, including the students.

Except Conor, of course.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like swimming. He just didn’t like the boisterous crowd and the inherent feeling of not belonging to anyone. He preferred the quiet, drawing or walking in silence with only the buzzing bees as company.

He was walking through the deeper parts of the woods which weren’t that scorching hot yet when he heard a cry.

It wasn’t sad or helpless, rather the opposite actually. It was a warrior’s cry, frustrated and angry and ready to fight, and Conor stopped in his tracks, unable to keep walking. Frowning.

Who would be here at this time of day? Usually, he was the only one.

It was enough to spark his curiosity, enough to send him running into the direction the cry was coming from. Only seconds later he knew who it was.

Harry.

He was only wearing a white top without sleeves and blue shorts, once white sneakers brown of crumbled, dry plants and dirt. He wasn’t facing the bushes Conor was hiding behind, instead lurching towards the massive trunk of an old oak, long branch with only a few quivering leaves in his hand. He let it whip against the tree with every cry, air hissing like a snake, the wood creaking as if in pain, and Conor couldn’t help but wince. He thought of the Monster, the yew tree, and instinctively reached forward, almost right through the thorns, as he fought down the urge to run onto the clearing and stop Harry.

_Why are you doing this?_

Later Conor would ask himself why he hadn’t turned around, why he had kept watching, why he had been so utterly intrigued. Later he wouldn’t be able to answer those questions. He wasn’t thinking now, though. He could only watch.

Lifting the branch over and over again must have been taking a lot of effort because Harry was panting, his breath so loud Conor thought to hear what must have been a rushing heartbeat as well, so loud he could almost feel the sweat breaking out all over his own skin. The intervals between the assaults grew larger and larger until Harry’s hand was trembling, until his whole body was trembling with exhaustion. The last leaves of the branch weren’t sticking to it anymore but had settled around him. His cries had transformed into gasps and even those didn’t last for long. His grip loosened, a motion like one might let go of a surprisingly hot cup of tea, the wood sliding out of his hand as if made of water and crashing onto the earth.

It wasn’t long until Harry joined it, knees buckling and arms loose at his side.

The nape of Conor’s neck began to tickle, the feeling of intruding himself into something private, something intimate made his stomach turn, and he should have run away then, should have gone home a long time ago.

Instead, he stayed, listening. There was a difference in Harry’s breathing now. At first Conor thought he was merely gasping for breath again. When he realised Harry wasn’t gasping at all, his heart missed a beat and his body grew cold despite the sun’s warmth. Harry was weeping, almost doubling over as his body shook with sobs.

 _I shouldn’t be here!_ Conor’s mind screamed.

It could have ended well after all if that hadn’t been the moment Conor stepped onto a heap of twigs. The creak echoing through the forest could have been a gunshot.

He didn’t wait to see if Harry had noticed it at all. He reeled around and ran.

Between the pulse hammering in his ears and his panting breaths he couldn’t know if Harry was following him but he felt as if there was a claw hovering above his neck, ready to pierce through his skin with its talons. Ready to draw blood.

(He didn’t have the courage to look back.)

It seemed as if he had run a mile but it couldn’t have been more than a few hundred metres when he did feel a hand pressing down onto his shoulder, and his heart dropped to the earth. He tried to wrest himself free but only began to stumble further until he had to stop if he didn’t want to fall.

In the end, he did end up sprawled upon the earth but only because Harry pushed him.

“If you tell the tiniest soul anything... of what you’ve seen I’ll kill you,” he growled. It would have sounded much more menacing without the hiccup that made his voice break halfway through the sentence.

Still, being alone with Harry towering over his defenceless back, it was menacing enough.

Heart still racing and lungs burning, Conor could only nod. He was half expecting Harry to give him a few well-aimed kicks, maybe taking revenge by beating him up as well.

It didn’t happen.

When Conor had regained enough strength to stand up without his legs trembling and failing, Harry was gone.

**~**

**3**

~

It took him a long time to forget that incident. Or rather, he didn’t quite manage to forget it entirely, only shoving it to the far back of his mind so it wasn’t preoccupying his thoughts all day.

Of course, it was on a day he hadn’t thought of Harry once that he met him again, and it was purely accidental.

More than a year had passed since Conor had last seen the Monster and, being older, he couldn’t quite believe in it anymore. Sometimes he stayed up late (against his grandma’s wishes, of course), watching the clock reach _12.07_ but no Monster appeared, no story unfolded itself before his eyes. School was going on, life was going on. He had even made a friend, the new girl, Rose, who had joined their class after summer holidays and loved art as much as he did.

He found himself walking by the old graveyard often enough but the reasons weren’t otherworldly anymore.

Back then he had been curious, if a little afraid, and hoping to talk to the Monster, hoping to explore something yet unknown to mankind, hoping to heal. Now he was merely enjoying the peace and silence, sometimes leaning against an overgrown gravestone to sketch the gnarled trees.

That day he hadn’t brought his art supplies, though. It was too cold, the first crisp winter day of the year, the chilly wind promising snow. Every breath drew tiny clouds into the air and even with the thick gloves his grandma had made him his fingers still felt like ice blocks.

Face halfway hidden behind a navy blue scarf, it took him way too long to realise who was stepping through the gates and walking into his field of vision.

Harry didn’t have the excuse of a scarf but his eyes did seem unfocused and distant, as if he was lost in his mind, doomed to wander aimlessly about. He wasn’t even wearing a hat, dark blond hair shimmering in the sun, cheeks painted a blotchy red.

It wasn’t possible to say who noticed the other one first but their eyes locked soon enough.

“What are you doing here?” Conor snapped against better reason, barely managing to keep his voice stable. He knew he was glaring at Harry, blood boiling, but he couldn’t help himself. This was his place, his safe haven, his land of hopeful dreams and fantastical adventures. Harry wasn’t part of this. He shouldn’t be allowed to be here. Conor didn’t want him to be here. Why was he?

Harry, having looked as if he had fallen head-first into icy water, managed to regain some composure. He pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes.

“This is a public place, O’Malley,” he snarled. “If you don’t want to meet one of those scary humans, perhaps you should stick to your room.”

It was then, looking into Harry’s eyes, so vibrant and yet dull, that Conor realised Harry’s face wasn’t red from the cold. Or maybe not only because of it.

 _He’s been crying... again_ , Conor thought, gut sinking and lips sealed shut. His arm twitched as the overwhelming urge to pull Harry into a hug overcame him, only stopped at the last second.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, nevertheless. It wasn’t meant to be heard by Harry but things often didn’t go as they were supposed to.

“What... did you say?” Harry muttered, voice dangerously low.

“I... nothing,” Conor said quickly, eyes wide.

Harry let the breath out of his lungs in a hissing sigh even though he kept glaring. “You’re really weird, Conor O’Malley.”

 _I know_ , Conor’s mind murmured. _But is being different really that bad?_

“Everyone’s a bit weird,” he said instead, if only to himself. He didn’t believe Harry was paying attention to his words. To be honest, it was quite the miracle he was even remembering his name.

“I’m not a freak like you!”

Conor flinched despite himself. Harry sounded more than anything as if he wanted to convince himself, a wavering note of panic in his voice, too loud, too shaky. “I’m not… I’m normal. I’m...”

He shook his head, a violent shiver making his body shake, and for a moment he looked very, very young.

“I don’t want this,” he mumbled, crossing his arms in a way that seemed more like he was hugging himself. He wasn’t looking into Conor’s eyes anymore. His mouth continued to move but no words echoed through the air and Conor wasn’t able to read his lips even though he made an effort to try. Later he would realise with a quickening pulse what it must have looked like, him staring that intently at Harry’s mouth.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” Harry barked, fire in his eyes. “Why do you love torturing me so much?”

_What?!_

“You were the one making my life a living hell while my Mum was... d-dying! _Fuck you_!”

It felt strange to talk to him like that but it was oddly satisfying as well. Conor knew it shouldn’t be. He knew he would feel bad soon enough which was why he wasn’t swearing usually, but in that moment it was the only right thing to do.

Harry was the one being speechless now, mouth gaping in a way that wasn’t flattering him at all.

“You... I don’t...,” he tried, stopped, tried, stopped, jaw working. In the end, he averted his gaze once again.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry whispered in a low voice that seemed scarily close to breaking, like a thin sheet of ice. Conor was certain he hadn’t been supposed to hear those words.

However, before he could even think of anything to say, Harry was gone. This time he had been the one to flee.

~

**4**

~

When his grandma announced they would move to a different, bigger town because of a job offer she couldn’t refuse, Conor locked himself into his room for three days straight.

He didn’t go to school. He didn’t answer the knocks on the door. The only food in his stomach consisted of two packets of crisps (sour cream and smoky bacon), three quarters of a chocolate bar, and two apples he had found in the far corner of his backpack.

He didn’t want to leave! Not now, when he had finally found a true friend, when he was looking forward to going to school, when had found a way to live in peace with himself.

Not when there were so many precious memories ingrained into this place. (And maybe a part of him did feel like he would lose his mother all over again.)

On the fourth day he sneaked out of the window in the early morning hours, hungry, dizzy, and weak from the lack of exercise and real nutrition.

The anger had begun to fade already, leaving only a hole in his chest and an exhausted mind. He hadn’t cried at all but he felt like it had been the only thing he had done those last days. He was tired, and a part of him had already decided he would talk to his grandma again. Not now, though.

The sun looked down from a slightly clouded sky, making his shadow wander in front of him. For a shorter distance he could have considered only wearing a shirt but as he was walking to the other end of the town he had put on a washed-out, black hoodie as well.

The diner he was walking to didn’t have a great variety of food. It offered hot dogs, two sorts of burger, and a salad that wasn’t quite a salad but rather two tomatoes and a leaf of lettuce with a bit of French dressing sprinkled on top. They made fantastic cheesecake, though, which was probably the only reason they hadn’t gone bankrupt yet.

It was close to Rose’s home as well. A part of him was hoping to meet her there even though he knew she would be getting ready to go to school at this time.

There was no other guest yet and the older woman behind the counter was polishing its surface in lazy circles. She looked up as soon as the bell announced Conor’s entrance, obviously happy to be pulled out of her boredom.

Not caring for any dish in particular, Conor ordered a cheeseburger and a coke, skin tingling as he was forced to talk to the cashier. He had always hated to talk to strangers and it was only slowly getting better.

It was about half an hour later when he was halfway done with his burger that a second guest entered the diner.

Usually, Conor wouldn’t have wanted to draw attention to himself. He would have quietly eaten his meal, would have quietly got up and left with such caution he wouldn’t have made the tiniest noise.

It was purely accidental when he did look up and saw Harry.

It had been a few months since he had last seen him but the memories ran through his mind like pictures of a film. Bright and clear and impactful like a sledgehammer.

Conor gulped as he watched Harry making an order himself, obviously not noticing him (and, _please, let it stay that way, please, let him ignore me_ ). But what if he did notice him?

Conor’s stomach was fluttering reminding him of those times he had been writing an important exam, the burger forgotten on the table as his eyes were glued on Harry.

 _Would it be really that bad to be noticed by him?_ , his mind wondered, pointing to all those question that had circled his mind since he had last met Harry. Or actually since before that day. What had made Harry cry? Why would he even consider blaming Conor when they weren’t even going to the same school anymore? Why had he done what he had done?

Those question had kept him awake for too many nights and a part of him yearned to learn the truth. Harry wouldn’t tell him, though. Would he?

It was then that Conor noticed Harry wasn’t looking at the woman behind the counter anymore but at him.

Contrary to their past meetings, his eyes weren’t narrowed in disgust or frustration. He was staring at him, pupils dilated and barely blinking, as if Conor was hiding the answers to every riddle in the world in his eyes if only you knew where to look at.

It was uncomfortable and Conor had to withstand the urge to rub his face or, better yet, stand up and leave. He felt his cheeks getting hot and hotter by the minute.

Even stranger than that gaze was that neither of them had said anything yet. No insult. No snarky comment. Nothing.

Captured by the moment, Conor didn’t even hear the woman declaring Harry could get his order now but it must have happened. The next thing Conor knew was that Harry was dropping his coke and burger onto his table, sitting down in front of him.

“Conor O’Malley,” he said, pronouncing the words like you would pronounce the name of a wanted criminal.

Conor swallowed hard, grip around his bottle of coke tightening as he pulled it closer to his body. Should he just get up and leave? Was that even a possibility?

He exhaled slowly.

“What do you want from me, Harry?” He raised his chin, hoping to appear more confident than he felt. “I don’t want to fight.”

_I’m tired. I just wanted to eat a last time without having to think of living a new life in a strange city._

“You’re so damn skinny, O’Malley. You really need to eat more,” Harry muttered, shaking his head as if scolding a young child.

“Here,” he added, shoving his burger to Conor’s side of the table. “Take this. I’m not that hungry anyway.”

Frowning, Conor could only stare at Harry, then at the burger and back at Harry again. He wouldn’t try to poison him, would he?

“I… don’t get the joke. Sorry.”

“I’m not joking, silly.” Harry crossed his arms, face turning just a light shade of pink.

“I don’t get it. Why would you buy me a burger?” It sounded even more ridiculous spoken out loud. Crazy. Like out of a fever dream. “You hate me.”

Harry’s eyes widened, lips moving in slow-motion as he was searching for words. “I... eh, why don’t you just accept my gift?”

Conor let the breath out of his lungs, waiting for more, but more didn’t come.

“Don’t you have school, Harry?”, he mumbled instead of answering the question.

Harry rolled his eyes, voice getting sharp like the blade of a razor. “Don’t you? I wouldn’t be here if I wanted to go. Why d’you care anyway?”

He averted his gaze, rubbing his temple with one hand, then sighing. Slowly.

“I’m... I, eh,... damn, why is this so freaking hard?” He slapped his palm onto the table, the noise like a stone meeting the asphalt, and Conor winced. “I’m sorry, okay? I was an idiot. Don’t make me repeat that.”

Conor’s mouth fell open but it took a whole minute until he was able to speak, heart leaping to his throat. “W-what... what are you sorry for?”

Harry pursed his lips, face more red than pink now. “Oh, c’mon, you know. Everything. That I made fun of you and... things. I just... well. I’ve said it. Can you take the burger now?”

Conor couldn’t believe his ears but it was no dream either. He took a deep breath.

“You’re really weird, Harry.”

That made Harry look up, even if only meeting Conor’s eyes for a split-second before the tips of his fingers got more interesting again.

“Humph.”

“... I’m leaving, you know. This town, I mean. I’m moving out with my grandma. Just in case you’ll wonder where I am… in the next months or so...”

Conor didn’t know why he was telling Harry of all people this but he couldn’t help himself. His tongue moved by itself like it wasn’t really part of his body.

Harry looked at him again, a strange feeling drawn into the lines of his face. Disappointment, maybe?

No, that couldn’t be.

“Oh,” he breathed, then practically pushing himself to a stand. “Guess I was lucky to catch you now... a-and don’t think I like you! I just wanted to get that off my chest, nothing to do with you.”

He was so quick to leave the diner he didn’t even take his coke, the dark liquid in the unopened bottle glimmering beneath the ceiling lamps.

Conor felt as if there were even more unanswered questions now. Question he couldn’t hope to get answered in the near future. Perhaps never.

He sighed.

In the end, he not only ate Harry’s burger but drank the coke too.

~

**5**

~

It took him three years to see Harry again. When he did meet him, it was purely accidental.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t returned to his hometown until then because he had. His grandma had usually come with him and they had gone to the graveyard with a bouquet of tulips or roses or violets. Afterwards they went out to eat in expensive restaurants with fancy names, laughing about the rich patrons and making up stories about them, one crazier than the next.

It was a good distraction. It was what his Mum would have wanted.

That day he had come for a different reason, though. Being 18 and having got his driver’s license recently, Conor felt free, free to go wherever he wanted to go, free to live his life as he wanted to live it. That was the closest to real freedom he would ever get and he was determined to enjoy it as long as that feeling lasted.

His hometown wasn’t quite the big adventure other students were seeking after graduation but that wasn’t what he wanted from life anyway. (However, he couldn’t quite say what he did want either.)

He didn’t think of Harry when he drove through familiar streets and alleys. He had crossed his mind in the past, yes, more often than would have been fitting as well, but he had never met him on one of his earlier visits, why should it be different this time?

Why should he want to see him anyway?

Harry had apologised for his behaviour honestly enough and while that couldn’t erase the past completely, Conor had forgiven him. There wasn’t anything they had to say to each other. Harry belonged to his childhood, to his past. To this town, perhaps. But not to his life anymore.

That was what Conor was telling himself when he parked his car in front of the old graveyard.

A bouquet of blue irises in his left hand, he was ready to open the gates when a small flyer caught his eye, the paper barely hanging onto the metal poles anymore. Instinctively he reached out to reattach it, gaze at first mildly interested then intrigued dancing over the text.

_SPRING CONCERT at the church Saint Bartholomay_

_Men and women, children and elders - Everyone’s welcome!_

_“Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;_

_And give us not to think so far away_

_As the uncertain harvest; keep us here_

_All simply in the springing of the year.”_

Conor didn’t read the rest of the poem, skipping to the far end of the text, to a simple footnote he wouldn’t have payed any attention to if noticing it in the corner of his eye hadn’t made his heart stop.

_Many thanks to Harry Gryphon for kindly accompanying the choir with his guitar!_

Conor read the line again, then again, wondering if it could be any other Harry than the one he knew. Was he still living here? He must have graduated as well, was maybe looking for a university to study at. Maybe he wanted to earn some extra money.

 _It’s him_ , Conor thought with more certainty than should have been possible, but something told him it was the truth. He began to slowly shake his head as if it would make this news anything other than bizarre and unbelievable. Harry, playing the guitar? Harry, in a church?

What kind of mad dream had he stepped into?

Nevertheless, his eyes trailed to the date at the top of the flyer and his stomach began to flutter when he realised that the concert would take place in the evening of that day. What a crazy coincidence! What an utterly weird turn of events.

Did he actually want to go and watch Harry play? Did he just needed anything to prove that it was, in fact, not a dream? Whatever the reason was, Conor took the flyer, folded it in half and put it into the pocket of his coat.

It was only then that he remembered the flowers in his hand and the graveyard in front of him. He opened the gate and wanted to enter when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Conor?!”

He didn’t frown trying to recognise the voice. He didn’t flinch in surprise, because his mind wasn’t really surprised. How could it be when he had thought of him mere seconds ago?

The only true surprise was the use of his first name after all those years of only being called O’Malley, or Conor O’Malley, or things he didn’t want to remember. Never just Conor.

But it was Harry, voice deeper, yet recognisable. It was Harry he saw when he turned around, heart almost leaping out of his chest with its hurried beating. Harry, grown-up, lines of his face just a bit sharper, hair darker and long enough to fall in gentle waves over his ears but not long enough to tickle the nape of his neck. There was a slight crook in his nose as if it hadn’t quite recovered from a punch, unfamiliar but not unattractive. His eyes had stayed the same, though, hawk’s eyes, determined, yet full of secrets.

They were wide and unblinking now and staring right into Conor’s soul.

“You’re back,” he said as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. A faint blush appeared on his cheeks as if he was only now realising what he had said, hands fidgeting with the zip of his open bomber jacket. His gaze rushed to the flowers in Conor’s hand, then to the graveyard and back to Conor.

“I… I didn’t want to stop you. I was just surprised to see you,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

The left corner of his mouth rose to a half smile. His lips were quivering a bit but his voice was steady enough. “Almost didn’t recognise you… you’ve changed quite a bit. Not that sickly skinny anymore…”

Conor cleared his throat but couldn’t quite get rid of that fluttering feeling in his chest. “Eh, you’ve changed too, Harry. Everyone changes when they grow older, I guess.”

He took a step closer to Harry, unsure of how to continue the conversation. Wanting to continue it, nevertheless. He had to look up at him but, having grown quite a bit in those last years, the difference wasn’t as big as it had once been.

Harry’s mouth was still opened, moving ever so slightly as if he wanted to say something. As if he wanted to continue this conversation as well.

Well, this wouldn’t have been the first time Harry couldn’t find words to say.

Conor sighed, rubbing his neck.

“I-if... you want to talk to me, you just need to ask, okay?”

Harry’s lips closed, silence filling the air again. _Did I say anything wrong_?, Conor wondered, swallowing hard. Had he misinterpreted Harry’s behaviour? Perhaps he should finally turn around let the past stay in the past. Perhaps this was the right time to finally cut the ties, to free himself from the questioning weight on his back.

Or perhaps he was an idiot after all.

“Do you want to come with me to my mother’s grave? I’ve brought some irises.” Conor nodded to the flowers in his hand, the blue of the blossoms like a cloudless sky. “My mother always liked them. Though, she liked all kinds of flowers, so I guess it doesn’t really count…”

A small smile unfolded itself on his lips. “I like to pretend that every flower I bring is her favourite, you see.”

He waited for a response. A second, two. The words _goodbye, Harry_ were making his tongue tingle, itching to be spoken, and yet it seemed so difficult as if he had to shout through a raging storm.

“I don’t have any flowers,” Harry murmured, shrugging his shoulders lightly. He was speaking slowly, as if every word took more effort than the one before. “I don’t want to… annoy you.”

“I’d like some company,” Conor said, meeting Harry’s gaze. His stomach was fluttering, still, but the feeling had spread upwards, settling in his chest like a flickering candle. _I had been wrong_ , he realised, heart stumbling like a kitten trying its first steps. Harry’s eyes weren’t the same, not entirely at least. There was warmth now where coldness had been, and this warmth made all the difference.

Maybe they had already begun to warm up years ago.

“I could join you for a few minutes.” Harry raised one corner of his mouth, chuckling lightly. “Sure.”

They made small talk while taking the path to his Mum’s grave, the sun lightening the patches of grass and earth around them, the smell of spring and vibrance and life in the air. At first hesitant, then more confident with every word, Conor told Harry from his years in a different city, from his graduation and his plans for the future. From the idea to study something art related.

Harry told him what had happened after Conor had moved, what their old classmates were doing, who was travelling the world and who was applying for all kinds of scholarships. They hadn’t ever talked to each other before, not seriously at least, not for a longer period of time, and it should have felt weird. Though, the really weird thing was that it didn’t feel weird at all.

They only stopped when Conor reached down to lay the flowers on the grave, eyes focusing on the granite stone with a thousand and no thoughts, hopes and wishes in his mind. He threw away the old bouquet and the most stubborn weeds in silence. Before turning around again, he whispered a few words that were only intended for his mother.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry closing his eyes, folding his hands as if to a prayer for a short minute. He didn’t say anything either until they had turned their back onto the grave and Conor was oddly grateful for that.

It was just before the gates when Harry stopped, lines of his face hardening, jaw tense.

“Thank you,” he said, startling Conor with the seriousness of his voice. Something flickered through his eyes. Shame? Pain? Disappointment? “For forgiving me. I don’t deserve it but… thanks. It’s… it makes it a lot easier… I feel like I can actually… breathe…”

He sighed, lifting his head to look up to the sky. Bright and promising and full of sunshine.

Conor’s heart grew heavy and light at once, lips trembling as he searched for words. He had to resist the urge to put a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You realised your mistakes… why shouldn’t I forgive you? We were young… and dumb. You more than me, I guess.”

Harry let the breath out between his teeth, a hand rubbing his forehead for what seemed an eternity.

“It’s more than that,” he ground out, words slow and sluggish like spilled oil. Though, it wasn’t quite said, rather whispered, quietly, voice barely audible. “I kind of… liked you but I thought you’d never like me, so I wanted to make sure no one else would like you either. I hated myself because of it and that made it easy to tell myself I hate you. I took the hatred I had for myself and directed it onto you, and that wasn’t fair. Not even close to it. I’m… s-sorry.”

He sighed, pressing his eyes together as if in agony. “My parents kicked me out when they discovered I was gay two years ago. I’m living with my aunt now.”

When he met Conor’s gaze again, there were so many words, so much raw emotion in his eyes, the sheer loudness of it was enough to silence his thoughts, to paralyse his legs and tongue. Conor could only stare and feel and hope there would come a day he would know what to say, what would be the right thing to say.

“I need to go now,” Harry muttered, hurrying to leave the graveyard. “Have a good life, Conor O’Malley.”

Conor still didn’t know what to say.

~

**\+ 1**

~

Conor still didn’t know what to say but he knew what to do.

~

The church wasn’t packed full of people, but there were enough mothers and fathers and grandparents for Conor to mingle with the crowd.

Harry was sitting close to the altar, a guitar out of pale wood with red markings in his hand. He was like a rock in a storm-swept sea, quietly tuning the strings with a few well-trained motions while the children of the choir were chatting and grinning and laughing like there was no bad in the world. It was hard to tell from afar but he did seem tense, brows drawn together slightly.

Conor could have walked up to him, there would have been enough time still, but when he was standing there, at the other end of the church, he found himself unable to do so, unable to pull a coherent thought out of his mind.

Legs threatening to buckle, he had to sit down, choosing the very last row. What could he even say to Harry? Why did he want to be here, to talk to him so badly? Why couldn’t he just let him go?

Why was his heart beating like it was trying to explode?

Conor stayed where he was, feeling a weight in his throat that made it difficult to breathe. He had never been that nervous before and he didn’t even know why he was. It was crazy.

A single note pulled him out of his reeling mind, making him notice the silence that had seized the audience. Making him realise that Harry had begun to play, the music crisp and clear and more beautiful than Conor would have ever expected. He hadn’t even known Harry was playing an instrument but that he was that good as well made him forget to breathe.

But wasn’t listening to it much more important than breathing anyway? Wasn’t there a beauty in it, a warmth that ran deep through your veins and made your chest swell? Wasn’t it a thing to relish in, to enjoy without any strange thoughts, without any thoughts at all? Enjoying it with just your mind and heart and soul?

The choir was singing as well, surprisingly good at that, and yet Conor couldn’t take his gaze away from Harry playing his guitar with closed eyes and having the look of a man without a worry in the world, if only for a limited time. He seemed to be at peace with every fibre of his body.

Conor was at peace as well.

And he knew what to say.

~

When he walked up to Harry after the concert had ended, his legs didn’t feel weak and his mind wasn’t rushing anymore. A silent determination was giving him energy, taking away the feelings of doubt or anxiety.

Harry had put the guitar back into his case which was why he only noticed Conor when he was standing right in front of him. When he did, his eyes widened, surprise drawn into his face as it were Jesus himself waiting for him to have a conversation.

Then he frowned, mouthing a single name. _Conor_?

“You were wrong,” Conor said. “You might have been right once, but people change and you’ve certainly changed for the better. I do like you, Harry.”

He gave him a smile, raising his hand to place it on his cheek, index finger grazing the dip of his temple. When he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, leaning forward slightly, Harry wasn’t moving and yet his eyes were caught in a storm, flickering and vibrant like a forest illuminated by sun rays.

Conor kissed him, gently letting their lips melt together like two pieces of a puzzle. He could feel Harry sigh, breath warm against his mouth, making his skin tingle and his mind fuzzy and dizzy. It felt good. It felt like the right thing to do.

~

Sometimes life gets better as you get older, sometimes it’s the people accompanying you that get better, and sometimes, in the very best of circumstances, it’s both.

~

**Author's Note:**

> *The iris is a symbol for creativity and energy and a bearer of good messages
> 
> *The poem’s an excerpt from Robert Frost’s A Prayer In Spring, hence the story's title
> 
> Some headcanons I came up with while writing:  
>  _Conor_  
>  – his birthday is in early spring, bisexual, can’t sing for the life of him, introvert, goes on to study history of art, loves winter  
>  _Harry_  
>  – his birthday is in summer, one year older than Conor, can’t swim, gay, loves to play the guitar/sing (and is quite good at it), has younger twin sisters, family’s quite rich


End file.
